Section 12 of the Case Book of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle This Librivox recording is in the public
domain, Read by Thomas Copeland. Story 12 The Adventure of the
Retired Colour Man. Sherlock Holmes was in a
melancholy and philosophic mood that morning.
His alert, practical nature was subject to such reactions.
Did you see him? He asked.
You mean the old fellow who has just gone out?
Precisely. Yes.
I met him at the door. What did you think of him?
A pathetic, futile, broken creature.
Exactly. What's in pathetic and futile?
But is not all life pathetic and futile?
Is not his story a microcosm of the whole we reach, we grasp,
and what is left in our hands at the end?
A shadow or worse than a shadow? Misery.
Is he one of your clients? Well, I suppose I may call him.
So. He has been sent on by the yard,
just as medical men occasionally send their incurables to a
quack. They argue that they can do
nothing more, and that whatever happens, the patient can be no
worse than he is. What is the matter?
Holmes took a rather soiled card from the table.
Josiah Amberley. He says he was junior partner of
Brickfallen Amberley, who are manufacturers of artistic
materials. You will see their names upon
paint boxes. He made his little pile, retired
from business at the age of 61, bought a house in Lewisham and
settled down to rest. After a life of ceaseless grind,
one would think his future was tolerably assured.
Yes, indeed. Holmes glanced over some notes
which he had scribbled upon the back of an envelope.
Retired in 1896, Watson early in 1897 he married a woman 20 years
younger than himself. A good looking woman too, if the
photograph does not flatter. A competence, a wife, leisure.
It seemed a straight Rd. which lay before him.
And yet within two years he is, as you have seen, as broken and
miserable. A creature as crawls beneath the
sun. But what has happened?
The old story Watson, a treacherous friend and a fickle
wife. It would appear that Amberley
has one hobby in life and it is chess.
Not far from him, at Lewisham, there lives a young Doctor Who
is also a chess player. I have noted his name as Doctor
Ray Ernest. Ernest was frequently in the
house and an intimacy between him and Mrs. Amberley was a
natural sequence. For you must admit that our
unfortunate client has few outward graces, whatever his
inner virtues may be. The couple went off together
last week, destination untraced. What is more, the faithless
spouse carried off the old man's deed box as her personal
luggage, with a good part of his life savings within.
Can we find the lady? Can we save the money?
A commonplace problem so far as it has developed, and yet a
vital one for Josiah Amberly. What would you do about it?
Well, the immediate question, my dear Watson, happens to be what
will you do if you will be good enough to understudy me?
You know that I am preoccupied with this case of the two Coptic
patriarchs, which should come to a head today.
I really have not time to go out to Lewisham.
And yet evidence taken on the spot has a special value.
The old fellow was quite insistent that I should go, but
I explained my difficulty. He is prepared to meet a
representative by all means. I answered.
I confess I don't see that I can be a much service, but I am
willing to do my best. And so it was that on a summer
afternoon I set forth to Lewisham, little dreaming that
within a week the affair in which I was engaging would be
the eager debate of All England. It was late that evening before
I returned to Baker Street and gave an account of my mission.
Holmes lay with his gaunt figure stretched in his deep chair, his
pipe curling forth slow wreaths of acrid tobacco, while his
eyelids drooped over his eyes so lazily that he might almost have
been asleep were it not that at any halt or questionable passage
of my narrative they half lifted, and two grey eyes, as
bright and keen as rapiers, transfixed me with their
searching glance. The Haven is the name of Mr.
Josiah Amberley's house. I explained.
I think it would interest you, Holmes.
It is like some penurious patrician who has sunk into the
company of his inferiors. You know that particular
quarter, the monotonous brick streets, the weary suburban
highways. Right in the middle of them, a
little island of ancient culture and comfort, lies this old home
surrounded by a high sun baked wall mottled with lichens and
topped with Moss. The sort of wall cut out the
poetry, Watson, said Holmes severely.
I note that it was a high brick wall exactly.
I should not have known which was the haven had I not asked a
lounger who was smoking in the street.
I have a reason for mentioning him.
He was a tall, dark, heavily moustached, rather military
looking man. He nodded in answer to my
inquiry and gave me a curiously questioning glance which came
back to my memory a little later.
I had hardly entered the gateway before I saw Mr. Amberley coming
down the drive. I only had a glimpse of him this
morning, and he certainly gave me the impression of a strange
creature. But when I saw him in full light
his appearance was even more abnormal.
I have, of course, studied it, and yet I should be interested
to have your impression, said Holmes.
He seemed to me like a man who was literally bowed down by
care. His back was curved, as though
he carried a heavy burden, yet he was not the weakling that I
had at first imagined, for his shoulders and chest have the
framework of a giant, though his figure tapers away into a pair
of spindled legs, left shoe wrinkled, right one smooth.
I did not observe that. No, you wouldn't.
I spotted his artificial limb, But proceed I was struck by the
snaky locks of grizzled hair which curled from under his old
straw hat, and his face with its fierce, eager expression, and
the deeply lined features. Very good, Watson, what did he
say? He began pouring out the story
of his grievances. We walked down the drive
together, and of course I took a good look round.
I have never seen a worse kept place.
The garden was all running to seed, giving me an impression of
wild neglect in which the plants had been allowed to find the way
of nature rather than of art. How any decent woman could have
tolerated such a state of things I don't know.
The house, too, was slatternly to the last degree, but the poor
man seemed himself to be aware of it and to be trying to remedy
it, for a great pot of green paint stood in the centre of the
hall, and he was carrying a thick brush in his left hand.
He had been working on the woodwork.
He took me into his dingy sanctum, and we had a long chat.
Of course he was disappointed that you would not come
yourself. I hardly expected, he said, that
so humble an individual as myself, especially after my
heavy financial loss, could obtain the complete attention of
so famous a man as Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
I assured him that the financial question did not arise.
No, of course it is art for art's sake with him, said he.
But even on the artistic side of crime, he might have found
something here to study. And human nature, Doctor Watson,
the black ingratitude of it all. When did I ever refuse one of
her requests? Was ever a woman so pampered?
And that young man, he might have been my own son.
He had the run of my house and yet see how they have treated
me. Oh, Doctor Watson, it is a
dreadful, dreadful world. That was the burden of his song.
For an hour or more he had, it seems, no suspicion of an
intrigue. They lived alone, save for a
woman who comes in by the day and leaves every evening at
6:00. On that particular evening old
Amberley, wishing to give his wife a treat, had taken 2 upper
circle seats at the Haymarket Theatre.
At the last moment she had complained of a headache and had
refused to go. He had gone alone.
There seemed to be no doubt about the fact, for he produced
the unused ticket which he had taken for his wife.
That is remarkable. Most remarkable, said Holmes,
whose interest in the case seemed to be rising.
Pray continue, Watson, I find your narrative most arresting.
Did you personally examine this ticket?
You did not, perchance, take the number?
It so happens that I did. I answered with some pride.
It chanced to be my old school #31 and so it stuck in my head.
Excellent, Watson. His seat then was either 30 or
32. Quite so.
I answered with some mystification.
And on B row that is most satisfactory.
What else did he tell you? He showed me his strong room as
he called it. It is really a strong room, like
a bank with iron door and shutter.
Burglar proof as he claimed. However, the woman seems to have
had a duplicate key and between them they had carried off some
£7000 worth of cash and securities.
Securities. How could they dispose of those?
He said that he had given the police a list and that he hoped
they would be unsalable. He had got back from the theatre
about midnight and found the place plundered, the door and
window open and the fugitives gone.
There was no letter or message, nor has he heard a word since.
He at once gave the alarm to the police.
Holmes brooded for some minutes. You say he was painting.
What was he painting? Well, he was painting the
passage, but he had already painted the door and woodwork of
this room I spoke of. Does it not strike you as a
strange occupation in the circumstances?
One must do something to ease an aching heart.
That was his own explanation. It was eccentric, no doubt, but
he is clearly an eccentric man. He tore up one of his wife's
photographs in my presence, tore it up furiously in a Tempest of
passion. I never wished to see her damned
face again. He shrieked.
Anything more, Watson? Yes, one thing which struck me
more than anything else. I had driven to the Blackheath
station and had caught my train there when, just as it was
starting, I saw a man dart into the carriage next to my own.
You know that I have a quick eye for faces, Holmes.
It was undoubtedly the tall, dark man whom I had addressed in
the street. I saw him once more at London
Bridge, and then I lost him in the crowd.
But I am convinced that he was following me.
No doubt, No doubt, said Holmes. A tall, dark, heavily moustached
man, you say? With Gray tinted sunglasses.
Holmes, you're a wizard. I did not say so, but he had
Gray tinted sunglasses and a Masonic tie pin, Holmes.
Quite simple, my dear Watson. But let us get down to what is
practical. I must admit to you that the
case which seemed to me to be so absurdly simple as to be hardly
worth my notice is rapidly assuming a very different
aspect. It is true that though in your
mission you have missed everything of importance, yet
even those things which have intruded themselves upon your
notice give rise to serious thought.
What have I missed? Don't be hurt, my dear fellow.
You know that I am quite impersonal.
No one else would have done better.
Some possibly not so well, but clearly you have missed some
vital points. What is the opinion of the
neighbors about this man Amberley and his wife?
That surely is of importance. What of Doctor Ernest, Was he
the gay lothario one would expect?
With your natural advantages Watson, every lady is your
helper and accomplice. What about the girl at the post
office or the wife of the greengrocer?
I can picture you whispering soft nothings with the young
lady at the Blue Anchor and receiving hard somethings in
exchange. All this you have left undone,
which can still be done. It has been done.
Thanks to the telephone and the help of the yard, I can usually
get my essentials without leaving this room.
As a matter of fact, my information confirms the man's
story. He has the local repute of being
a miser as well as a harsh and exacting husband.
That he had a large sum of money in that strong room of his is
certain. So also is it that young Doctor
Ernest, an unmarried man, played chess with Amberley, and
probably played the fool with his wife.
All this seems plain sailing, and one would think that there
was no more to be said. And yet.
And yet, where lies the difficulty?
In my imagination, perhaps. Well, leave it there, Watson.
Let us escape from this weary workaday world by the side door
of music. Karina sings to night at the
Albert Hall, and we still have time to dress, dine and enjoy in
the morning. I was up the times, but some
toast crumbs and two empty egg shells told me that my companion
was earlier still. I found a scribbled note upon
the table. Dear Watson, there are one or
two points of contact which I should wish to establish with
Mr. Josiah Amberley. When I have done so, we can
dismiss the case or not. I would only ask you to be on
hand about 3:00, as I conceive it possible that I may want you.
SH. I saw nothing of Holmes all day,
but at the hour named he returned grave, preoccupied, and
aloof. At such times it was wiser to
leave him to himself. Has Amberly been here yet?
No, Ah, I am expecting him. He was not disappointed, for
presently the old fellow arrived with a very worried and puzzled
expression upon his austere face.
I've had a telegram, Mr. Holmes, I can make nothing of it.
He handed it over, and Holmes read it aloud.
Come at once, without fail can give you information as to your
recent loss. Elman, The Vicarage despatched
at 210 from little Turlington, said Holmes.
A Little Turlington is in Essex, I believe, not far from Frinton.
Well, of course you will start at once.
This is evidently from a responsible person, the vicar of
the place. Where is my Crockford?
Yes, here we have him, JC Elman, MA living of Moss Moor.
Come, little Pearlington. Look up the trains, Watson.
There's one at 520 from Liverpool Street.
Excellent. You had best go with him,
Watson. He may need help or advice.
Clearly we have come to a crisis in this affair, but our client
seemed by no means eager to start.
It's perfectly absurd, Mr. Holmes, he said.
What can this man possibly know of what has occurred?
It is a waste of time and money. He would not have telegraphed to
you if he did not know something.
Why are at once that you are coming?
I don't think I shall go. Holmes assumed his sternest
aspect. It would make the worst possible
impression both on the police and upon myself.
Mr. Amberley, if when so obvious a clue arose, you should refuse
to follow it up. We should feel that you were not
really in earnest in this investigation.
Our client seemed horrified at the suggestion.
Why, of course, I shall go, if you look at it that way, said
he. On the face of it, it seems
absurd to suppose that this Parson knows anything.
But if you think, I do think, said Holmes, with emphasis.
And so we were launched upon our journey.
Holmes took me aside before we left the room and gave me one
word of counsel which showed that he considered the matter to
be of importance. Whatever you do, see that he
really does go, said he. Should he break away or return,
get to the nearest telephone exchange and send the single
word bolted. I will arrange here that it
shall reach me wherever I am. Little Pearlington is not an
easy place to reach, for it is on a branch line.
My remembrance of the journey is not a pleasant one, for the
weather was hot, the train slow, and my companion sullen and
silent, hardly talking at all, save to make an occasional
sardonic remark as to the futility of our proceedings.
When we at last reached the little station, it was a two
mile drive before we came to the Vicarage, where a big, solemn,
rather pompous clergyman received us in his study.
Our telegram lay before him. Well, gentlemen, he asked, what
can I do for you? We came, I explained, in answer
to your wire. My wire?
I've sent no wire. I mean the wire which you sent
to Mr. Josiah Amberly about his wife and his money.
If this is a joke, Sir, it is a very questionable one, said the
vicar angrily. I have never heard of the
gentleman you name, and I have not sent a wire to anyone.
Our client and I looked at each other in amazement.
Perhaps there is some mistake, said I.
Are there perhaps 2 vicarages? Here is the wire itself, signed
Elman and dated from the Vicarage.
There is only one Vicarage, Sir, and only one vicar.
And this wire is a scandalous forgery, the origin of which
shall certainly be investigated by the police.
Meanwhile, I can see no possible object in prolonging this
interview. So Mr. Amberley and I found
ourselves on the roadside in what seemed to me to be the most
primitive village in England. We made for the Telegraph
office, but it was already closed.
There was a telephone, however, in the little railway arms, and
by it I got in touch with Holmes, who shared in our
amazement at the result of our journey.
Most singular, said the distant voice.
Most remarkable. I much fear, my dear Watson,
that there is no return train to night.
I have unwittingly condemned you to the horrors of a country inn.
However, there is always nature, Watson, Nature and Josiah
Amberley. You can be in close commune with
both. I heard his dry chuckle as he
turned away. It was soon apparent to me that
my companion's reputation as a miser was not undeserved.
He had grumbled at the expense of the journey, had insisted
upon travelling third class, and was now clamorous in his
objections to the hotel bill. Next morning, when we did at
last arrive in London, it was hard to say which of us was in
the worst humor. You had best take Baker St. as
we pass, said I, Mr. Holmes, may have some fresh instructions.
If they are not worth more than the last ones, they are not of
much use, said Amberley, with a malevolent scowl.
None the less he kept me company.
I had already warned Holmes by telegram of the hour of our
arrival, but we found a message waiting that he was in Lewisham
and would expect us there. That was a surprise, but an even
greater 1 was to find that he was not alone in the sitting
room of our client. A stern looking impassive man
sat beside him, a dark man with grey tinted glasses and a large
Masonic pin projecting from his tie.
This is my friend, Mr. Barker. Said Holmes.
He has been interesting himself. Also in your business, Mr.
Josiah Amberly, though we have been working independently, but
we both have the same question to ask you.
Mr. Amberly sat down heavily. He sensed impending danger.
I read it in his straining eyes and his twitching features.
What is the question Mr. Holmes? Only this.
What did you do with the bodies? The man sprang to his feet with
a hoarse scream. He clawed into the air with his
Bony hands. His mouth was open and for the
instant he looked like some horrible bird of prey.
In a flash we got a glimpse of the real Josiah Amberley, a
misshapen demon with a soul as distorted as his body.
As he fell back into his chair he clapped his hand to his lips
as if to stifle a cough. Holmes sprang at his throat like
a tiger and twisted his face towards the ground.
A white pellet fell from between his gasping lips.
No short cuts, Josiah Amberley. Things must be done decently and
in order. What about it, Barker?
I have a cab at the door, said our taciturn companion.
It is only a few 100 yards to the station.
We will go together. You can stay here, Watson.
I shall be back within half an hour.
The old colourman had the strength of a lion in that great
trunk of his, but he was helpless in the hands of the two
experienced manhandlers. Wriggling and twisting, he was
dragged to the waiting cab and I was left to my solitary vigil in
the ill omened house. In less time than he had named,
however, Holmes was back in company with a smart young
police inspector. I've left Barker to look after
the formalities, said Holmes. You had not met Barker Watson?
He is my hated rival upon the Surrey shore.
When you said a tall, dark man, it was not difficult for me to
complete the picture. He has several good cases to his
credit, has he not, Inspector? He has certainly interfered
several times. The inspector answered with
reserve. His methods are irregular, no
doubt, like my own. The irregulars are useful
sometimes, you know. You, for example, with your
compulsory warning about whatever he said being used
against him, could never have bluffed this Rascal into what is
virtually A confession. Perhaps not, but we get there
all the same. Mr. Holmes, don't imagine that
we had not formed our own views of this case, and that we would
not have laid our hands on our man.
You will excuse us for feeling sore when you jump in with
methods which we cannot use, and so rob us of the credit.
There shall be no such robbery, McKinnon.
I assure you that I efface myself from now onwards.
And as to Barker, he has done nothing save what I told him.
The inspector seemed considerably relieved.
That is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes.
Praise or blame can matter little to you, but it is very
different to us when the newspapers begin to ask
questions. Quite so, but they are pretty
sure to ask questions anyhow, so it would be as well to have
answers. What do you say, for example,
when the intelligent and enterprising reporter asks you
what the exact points were which aroused your suspicion and
finally gave you a certain conviction as to the real facts?
The inspector looked puzzled. We don't seem to have got any
real facts yet, Mr. Holmes. You say that the prisoner, in
the presence of three witnesses, practically confessed by trying
to commit suicide that he had murdered his wife and her lover.
What other facts have you? Have you arranged for a search?
There are three constables on their way.
Then you will soon get the clearest fact of all.
The bodies cannot be far away. Try the Cellars and the garden.
It should not take long to dig up the likely places.
This house is older than the water pipes.
There must be a disused well somewhere.
Try your luck there. But how did you know of it and
how was it done? I'll show you first how it was
done and then I will give the explanation which is due to you
and even more to my long-suffering friend here who
has been invaluable throughout. But first I would give you an
insight into this man's mentality.
It is a very unusual 1, so much so that I think his destination
is more likely to be broad More than the scaffold.
He has to a high degree the sort of mind which one associates
with the medieval Italian nature rather than with the modern
Britain. He was a miserable miser who
made his wife so wretched by his niggerly ways that she was a
ready prey for any adventurer. Such a one came upon the scene,
and the person of this chess playing Doctor Amberley excelled
at chess. 1 Mark Watson of a scheming mind.
Like all misers, he was a jealous man, and his jealousy
became a frantic mania. Rightly or wrongly, he suspected
an intrigue. He determined to have his
revenge, and he planned it with diabolical cleverness.
Come here. Holmes LED us along the passage
with as much certainty as if he had lived in the house, and
halted at the open door of the strong room.
Who? What an awful smell of paint,
cried the Inspector. That was our first clue, said
Holmes. You can thank Doctor Watson's
observation for that, though he failed to draw the inference.
It set my foot upon the trail. Why should this man at such a
time be filling his house with strong odours?
Obviously to cover some other smell which he wished to
conceal, some guilty smell which would suggest suspicions.
Then came the idea of a room such as you see here, with iron
door and shutter, A hermetically sealed room.
Put those two facts together, and whither do they lead?
I could only determine that by examining the house myself.
I was already certain that the case was serious, for I had
examined the box office chart at the Haymarket Theatre, another
of Doctor Watson's bull's eyes, and ascertained that neither B30
nor 32 of the upper circle had been occupied that night.
Therefore, Amberley had not been to the theatre, and his alibi
fell to the ground. He made a bad slip when he
allowed my astute friend to notice the number of the seat
taken for his wife. The question now arose how I
might be able to examine the house.
I sent an agent to the most impossible village I could think
of, and summoned my man to it at such an hour that he could not
possibly get back. To prevent any miscarriage.
Doctor Watson accompanied him. The good vicar's name I took, of
course, out of my Crockford. Do I make it all clear to you?
It is masterly, said the inspector in an odd voice.
There being No Fear of interruption, I proceeded to
burgle the house. Burglary has always been an
alternative profession, and I cared to adopt it, and I have
little doubt that I should have come to the front.
Observe what I found. You see the gas pipe along the
skirting here? Very good.
It rises in the angle of the wall and there is a tap here in
the corner. The pipe runs out into the
strong room, as you can see, and ends in that plaster rows in the
centre of the ceiling where it is concealed by the
ornamentation. That end is wide open.
At any moment, by turning the outside tap, the room could be
flooded with gas, door and shutter closed and the tap full
on. I would not give 2 minutes of
conscious sensation to anyone shut up in that little chamber.
By what devilish device he decoyed them there I do not
know, but once inside the door they were at his mercy.
The inspector examined the pipe with interest.
One of our officers mentioned the smell of gas, said he.
But of course the window and door were opened then, and the
paint or some of it was already about.
He had begun the work of painting the day before,
according to his story. But what next, Mr. Holmes?
Well, then came an incident which was rather unexpected to
myself. I was slipping through the
pantry window in the early dawn when I felt a hand inside my
collar and a voice said. Now you Rascal, what are you
doing in there? When I could twist my head round
I looked into the tinted spectacles of my friend and
rival, Mr. Barker. It was a curious for gathering
and set us both smiling. It seems that he had been
engaged by Doctor Ray Earnest's family to make some
investigations and had come to the same conclusion as to foul
play. He had watched the house for
some days and had spotted Doctor Watson as one of the obviously
suspicious characters who had called there.
He could hardly arrest Watson, but when he saw a man actually
climbing out of the pantry window, there came a limit to
his restraint. Of course I told him how matters
stood, and we continued the case together.
Why him? Why not us?
Because it was in my mind to put that little test which answered
so admirably. I fear you would not have gone
so far. The inspector smiled.
Well, maybe not. I understand that.
I have your word, Mr. Holmes, that you step right out of the
case now, and that you turn all your results over to us.
Certainly that is always my custom.
Well, in the name of the Force, I thank you.
It seems a clear case, as you put it, and there can't be much
difficulty over the bodies. I'll show you a grim little bit
of evidence, said Holmes. And I am sure Ambery himself
never observed it. You'll get results, Inspector,
by always putting yourself in the other fellow's place and
thinking what you would do yourself.
It takes some imagination, but it pays.
Now we will suppose that you were shut up in this little
room, had not 2 minutes to live, but wanted to get even with the
fiend who was probably mocking at you from the other side of
the door. What would you do?
Write a message Exactly. You would like to tell people
how you died. No use writing on paper that
would be seen if you wrote on the wall.
Some eye might rest upon it. Now look here, just above the
skirting is scribbled with a purple indelible pencil.
We, that's all. What do you make of that?
Well, it's only a foot above the ground.
The poor devil was on the floor and dying when he wrote it.
He lost his senses before he could finish.
He was writing. We were murdered.
That's how I read it. If you find an indelible pencil
on the body, we'll look out for it.
You may be sure. But those securities, clearly
there was no robbery at all. And yet he did possess those
bonds. We verified that.
You may be sure he has hidden them in a safe place.
When the whole elopement had passed into history, he would
suddenly discover them, had announced that the guilty couple
had relented and sent back the plunder, or had dropped it on
the way. You certainly seem to have met
every difficulty, said the inspector.
Of course he was bound to call us in, but why he should have
gone to you I can't understand. Pure Swank, Holmes answered.
He felt so clever and so sure of himself that he imagined no one
could touch him. He could say to any suspicious
neighbor. Look at the steps I have taken.
I have consulted not only the police but even Sherlock Holmes.
The inspector laughed. We, we must forgive your even
Mr. Holmes, said he. It's as Workman like a job as I
can remember. A couple of days later, my
friend tossed across to me a copy of the biweekly N Surrey
Observer under a series of flaming headlines which began
the Haven horror and ended with brilliant police investigation.
There was a packed column of print which gave the first
consecutive account of the affair.
The concluding paragraph is typical of the whole.
It ran thus the remarkable acumen by which Inspector
McKinnon has deduced from the smell of paint that some other
smell, that of gas for example, might be concealed, the bold
deduction that the strong room might also be the death chamber,
and the subsequent inquiry which led to the discovery of the
bodies in a disused well cleverly concealed by a dog
kennel, should live in the history of crime as a standing
example of the intelligence of our professional detectives.
Well, well, McKinnon is a good fellow, said Holmes, with a
tolerant smile. You can file it in our archives,
Watson. Someday the true story may be
told. End of the Adventure of the
Retired Cullerman. End of the case Book of Sherlock
Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.